Monthly Archives: June 2014

I. (Allenwood, NJ)
How peaceful is this
room my father built
two years ago but has
yet to fill with furniture.
It is a project left un-
finished. A victim of
sweetly shared,
common dramas
of aging and
bodies once strong,
bending
under the curve
of the clock’s hand.

When a television
meets the western wall
between the two windows
generous with sunlight,
I will enjoy this room
much less.
For now, there’s
a sofa and items
stored in the corner

Temporarily placed,
with no where else to be
right now,
like me,
settling back
into the home
my father built,
feeling familiar
grievances in
other rooms
less empty.
The corners
dulled as
children grew.

II. (Hazlet, NJ)

There were hanging baskets,

brimming with vines
a glass wall with shelves-
it was chic in their time.
Pop would lift the baby
into tree branches
and walk her along the garden,
rows and rows of begonias.
Dark leaves will return her to
records of The Eagles.

There are many different ways to plant a seed.

III. (West Belmar, NJ)
Home improvement
projects require
shirts stained by sweat
and hands dusty
from sheetrock.
Crafting a home
is no simple task
and yet he says it’s so
simple, nearly
instinctual to
grow his home
to offer us
more room to move
or stay, like he does too.

Carving words into the
unpainted wall we are
untouchably safe, like
ripe fruit not picked
from the vine on which
originally it grew.

With blossoms on your mind,
And legs that stretch to intertwine
With roots that rise from fertile ground,
You feel a nudge. You start to grow.

Your grandmother,
Alone in her smoky apartment
One afternoon,
Told you she lived
“A good life,” and you
Wanted to believe her.
She spoke to you about men
And love,
Marriage when you’re twenty,
Four kids by twenty-five,
And control-
The kind that haunts you.

She was bound by the times.
Your insides echo the tide.

With the moon in view you
Soar like a gull.
The wind is at your face.
It shoves your hair back.
It keeps you still.

With salt between your fingers
You reach for her words and they
Frame the sentence that you’re about to
Tell him,
Tell him,
Tell him.
You are in bloom.

After reading your poetry today,
after observing
the succulence
of your words,
and wandering
the threads
of your world,
and tasting
the poignancy
of your breakfasts
and other things devoured,

I am inspired to write a poem
of my own.
Is that not
how it always happens?

But I
do not believe
that today would be
better spent

writing a poem,
(inspired by your
hospital stays,
wandering intuition,
unnamed women who
loved you, or didn’t,
the rhythm and
breathiness in
your voice,
and the way
you stress
the last syllable
of each
articulation…)
than laying seaside
with my sister,
who laughs while
rubbing sunscreen
lotion onto the middle
of my back,
a place that
I cannot reach.
A poem
might hurt,
like you do.
My reality today,
instead, will be to write
in the sand
and avoid
the pain of sunburn.

It has been a month since I graduated from Rutgers University and ever since that sunny afternoon of May 18th I have been vacillating between confidence and total lack there of. A few different thought patterns are seemingly competing for my attention and subsequent action.

This one is the most recurring: “What are you doing? Where will you go from here? You should be actively crafting the life you want! You need to MAKE MOVES or else YOU’RE DEFINITELY GOING TO ROT.”

Another is “Hey you, take some time to chill, think, and search both your soul and the internet. You’re lucky that you have an opportunity to settle into something new rather than rush. Also, go to the beach. Take a little time for calm and contemplation.”

Another suggests: “Just go to yoga class and work on your vibrations so that you aren’t blocking any part of your human self”

Another says: “You’re ridiculous. Shut the hell up. You are what you do (waitressing… reading on the beach… going to bars…kissing boys…?) not what you say. (read above)

My situation is not at all unique. In fact, it is so cliche that it makes me want to throw up. However, it’s my reality right now and I have enough self-awareness and perspective to be grateful it’s mine. In an effort to release these thoughts and give them less hold over me, I write.

Today, tomorrow, and the day after that I will gather up experiences, watch my thoughts and write them out. I will pay attention to the beauty of my life and the mild uncertainty of it. I will blog and document what happens here and hopefully someone will read my words and relate to them, because, despite the fact that I have no idea about the short term, my life’s goal and dream has always been to be a writer, and to extend my voice to others, to inspire, and to offer something beautiful.